


The Accidental Date

by louisandthealien



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M, Restaurants, Valentine's Day, Valentine's Day Fluff, Waiter Harry, i am hungry, i swear the tomlinshaw is barely anything, nick is only mentioned by name, there's so much food in this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-28
Updated: 2016-03-28
Packaged: 2018-05-29 18:41:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6388783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/louisandthealien/pseuds/louisandthealien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s already been clarified that Louis is a lot of things: he’s an idiot, he’s prideful, he’s a masochist, and he never does anything half way. So it’s the conglomeration of these stunning attributes that leads him to his final, half hellbent, half self-pitying decision. Because Louis is one final thing, above all else.</p>
<p>Louis Tomlinson is a stubborn motherfucker.</p>
<p>The Valentine’s Day AU where Louis gets stood up for his date and, instead of going home, ends up eating an entire five course meal by himself out of spite (and not at all because his waiter’s cute as hell.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Accidental Date

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This work has been submitted with modifications (character names, content, language) for professional purposes. 
> 
> This piece in its original format is a work of fan art for the purpose of engaging with the online community.

Louis Tomlinson spent two hours picking out his outfit this afternoon, one hour showering, a solid thirty-five minutes messing with his fringe, and brushed his teeth three (3) times (twice with floss and mouth wash) in preparation for his date this evening, because if there is one thing that’s true about Louis Tomlinson, it’s that he never does anything halfway.

So, yeah. He prepared, alright. It’s just that this is his first Valentine’s Day since things went to shit with James and he’s kind of, sort of, fairly surprised that he’s got a date at all, much less with the 6 foot 5 Calvin Klein model from accounting (and no, Nick’s not _actually_ an underwear model. Though it is an opportunity wasted in Louis’ fantasy-ridden, humble opinion.)

Nick’d said he’d made the reservation for 8:00, so at 8:05— tastefully tardy— Louis’ shoving his car key keys into the pocket of his grey leather jacket and trying to sneak one final surreptitious glance in the tinted restaurant window, stifling the sudden flash of panic that’s demanding to know _why the hell_ he didn’t cover the bags under his eyes. He tells himself he looks fine, swings open the heavy glass door and forces himself inside. He’s ready.

It’s 8:08 by the time he gives Nick’s name to the hostess and is being led over to a small, candle-lit, empty, vacant, deserted, Nick-less table smack in the middle of Square, #1 on Yelp’s Top 10 Most Romantic Restaurants in the city.

It’s 8:10 then and he’s seated and casually scrolling through Twitter as he waits.

At 8:15 a lanky waiter strolls up to the table with a water jug. “Hi, how are you doing this evening?” he asks pleasantly, pouring with one hand, the other tucking a curly wisp behind his ear. “I’m Harry, I’ll be your waiter this evening.” He smiles broadly and sets the jug in the center of the table, eyes locking on Louis’. His gaze flickers to the empty chair beside him. “Can I get you anything to drink while you wait?”

Louis glances towards the front door and then checks his phone. 8:16.

“Um, no thanks,” he smiles politely. “I’ll wait ’til he gets here,” he gestures to Nick’s chair.

Harry nods and takes a step back. “No problem, I’ll be back in a bit then.” He goes to turn around, but then stops, eyes lighting up. “Oh! Just so you know, Vavasour Sauvignon Blanc is on special tonight. $25 the bottle. Keep that in mind!” And then he’s bustling away and Louis’ left staring at the bob of his head, wondering how the hell someone could make a bun look so good.

——

“ _Ho—ly_ _shit,”_ Harry wheezes, dramatically slumping against the counter of the server station. “Niall!” He beckons over a stocky server with over-styled hair, jerking a dramatically half-hearted thumb out towards the floor of the restaurant. “Go check out Table 28…”

Niall peeks his head around the corner of the doorway “28…28…What? The guy in the leather jacket?” He sounds unimpressed, but stares for a few seconds longer all the same. He turns around, eyes already darting back towards the kitchen to check if any of his food is up. “What about him?”

Harry’s jaw drops and for a second he really and truly considers stuffing Niall’s mailbox full of coupons for a trip to the eye doctors because, _“What about him?”_ he moans, sparing another quick glance back over at the table.

Niall merely shrugs, already walking away to greet a new couple who’s just arrived in his section. “Meh, I’d give him a generous 7, I think.” And then he’s gone, leaving Harry to his disgusted protests of “ _7?_ Are you fucking _blind,_ Horan! Look at those fucking eyes—are you—he’s a 9 at least! 10 if I could—“

A voice snaps. “Haz!” Harry whips around, sheepish. “Are we talking or working here, mate? Come on, now.”

“Liam, I was just, I, um…” he says automatically, standing up straight again, searching around in his apron pocket for his notepad or the new beer list, just something— _anything_ to make it look like he hasn’t been standing around mooning over one of the guests. “I was just—“

“Drooling over the guy at table 28. I heard.”

He doesn’t sound too terribly cross— Harry’s worked for Liam for a solid four years now, long enough to say their relationship definitely goes beyond just employee/boss— but he’s not an idiot, knows that on busy nights (on fucking Valentine’s Day of all days) not to push Liam’s buttons, and _definitely_ not to be standing around talking when there’s food to be ran, silverware to be rolled, floors to be swept. So he’s off and running before Liam’s got the chance to stick him with the shittiest of the closing side work or something equally irritating.

But, well, the thing is, he’s not entirely sure what to do with himself yet. Three of his tables are eating comfortably, one’s already paid and has been chatting for far too long for a night with a wait list three hours long and over two hundred reservations…and then there’s Table 28. Leather Jacket Boy’s table. Which is still unfortunately (fortunately?) a table for one.

He spares a glance over towards the bar and there aren’t any drinks to be ran, but he hasn’t got much else to do for the time being so he wanders over, determined to get a second opinion.

He leans up heavily against the server side rail, fingers drumming against the sticky wetness of the bar mats. “Oi, Zayn,” he calls out, eyes flickering back and forth between his stagnant section and the short, tattooed man before him. “Check out Table 28.”

Zayn doesn’t miss a beat, eyes darting up and across the restaurant as his measures out a seven second pour of Kettle 1 into a metal shaker. A flickering smile creeps across his face. “Cute,” he confirms, raising his eyebrows suggestively. “Is that your table?”

“Yeah,” Harry nods, following Leather Jacket Boy’s gaze as it darts to the entrance, a huge, dark haired man striding through. He frowns for a second. It’s stupid of course and he _knows_ it is—it’s freaking Valentine’s Day after all, and Leather Jacket Boy had literally said he was waiting for his date— but he still feels a little wistful for whatever reason.

But then Leather Jacket Boy’s eyes drop back down to his menu and the hostess ends up leading the man in the opposite direction.

——

8:25.

Or at least it _was_ 8:25 the last time Louis checked his phone (all of about thirty seconds ago) and it’s taking all his self-control not to check again because it’s _fine._ It’s _only_ 8:25 and so _what_ if Nick had said the reservation was for 8:00 because Nick’s always late! Right? He was late for that one meeting that one time…last…fall…right? And _no,_ Louis is _not_ frantically trying to reassure himself, because it’s _only_ 8:25 and they’re all adults here. For a second he debates sending Nick a quick text (maybe a call?) just to make sure he’s okay and what not (what if he got into an accident on the way over? What if he locked his keys in his house? What if his house is _on fire?)_ but in the end he doesn’t, just makes a pointed decision to put the phone down, sip some water, and look over the—

“Are you sure I can’t just get you started with a drink while you wait?” Louis’ eyes snap upwards, just his eyes, not his head, because _fuckfuckfuckfuck he’s literally getting stood up on Valentine’s Day and the fucking waiter can tell and wants to get this show on the road, humiliate him and point out that he’s_ still _fucking waiting so that he’ll just get up and leave so he can get his table back and working again. FUCK._

And Louis is just about to decline with a red face— he wants to, he really, really wants to just get up and go home and maybe have a nice, long embarrassed cry in the shower— but instead he panics and finds himself smiling stiffly and saying, “Yeah, actually I’ll just go ahead and buy a bottle of that wine you were talking about earlier. The special?” Because he’s is a prideful masochist and _if there’s one thing that’s true about Louis Tomlinson_ , he never does anything halfway.

The curly haired waiter—Harry, he’d said his name was— just smiles, nods, and runs off and for a second Louis honestly considers just making a run for it. Because he’s _really_ fucked now, you see. It’s got to be at least 8:30 now and there’s no way Nick’s coming, he’s one hundred percent getting stood up on Valentine’s Day, and instead of just accepting the shame of having to apologize to his waiter and walk out alone of a crowded restaurant, he’s gone ahead and ordered an entire bottle of wine for himself and his nonexistent date to share amongst all the other happy, loved-up couples celebrating this oh-so romantic holiday, because He. Is. An. Idiot.

——

Table 28. Vavasour Sauvignon Blanc. Bottle. Seat 1. One…Harry’s a hand hesitates over the button on the computer screen, unsure for just a split second before deleting the entry and selecting Two Glasses.

But he doesn’t have long to ponder the sad irony that has him meeting the single most attractive man he has ever met in his entire life while said man is on a Valentine’s Day date at an expensive restaurant while Harry is merely taking orders and scrambling for tips on Valentine’s Day at said restaurant he could never afford to eat at, because Liam’s already yelling _‘Hands!’_ from the kitchen and Harry’s automatically shuffling in, arms outstretched, ready to grab whatever dish is ready to be delivered to some happy, gooey, doe-eyed couple.

He should’ve requested tonight off. Not that he’d have had a date or anything, but sitting at home eating ice cream on his couch and binge watching the Kardashians would surely be a better Valentine’s spent than this hell right here.

“How’s Table 28 doing?” Liam smirks knowingly, passing off a salmon dish and shoving a chilled salad plate into Harry’s other hand.

“Still beautiful,” Harry shrugs, “still waiting for his date to arrive.”

“Still?” Liam frowns. “That table was under the 8:00 slot. It’s been at least a half hour…” He’s already got an irritated look spreading across his face, imagining reservations being pushed back, yelling guests, hostesses in tears— the works.

“He just now ordered a bottle of wine,” Harry assures him quickly, wanting to both diffuse the slightly manic look on Liam’s face that only comes with slam-packed nights and (for some weird, stupid reason) wanting to defend Leather Jacket Boy’s honor. A half hour delay isn’t going to kill anyone.

By the time he’s dropped off the entrées to Niall’s table, checked on the rest of his section, and refilled several water glasses, the wine’s up at the bar, two sparkling glasses lined up neatly besides it.

“For cutie right?” Zayn grins, nodding at the bottle and then back over to Table 28.

“Yeah, yeah,” Harry brushes him off, loading everything onto a small tray. “Still waiting on that date of his, though…”

“Hey, who knows? Maybe the date won’t come!” Zayn shrugs, reaching for the next string of drink tickets spurting out of the printer.

“Right!” Harry laughs. “In my dreams!”

But the thing is…it’s past 8:30 by this point and Leather Jacket Boy is only _just_ able to rearrange the sour look on his face by the time Harry reaches the table, so he’s got a feeling something’s going on. Stood up? Boyfriend running late? Husband _forget?_

“Okay, so this is the Vavasour Sauvignon Blanc,” Harry says brightly, his _‘_ server-voice’ piercing through the awkwardness at the table. He quickly cuts off the seal around the top of the bottle and twists the wine-opener into the cork, spinning the handle quickly just as he’s done a thousand times. But when he goes to push the level down and pull the cork back up again…it breaks. It literally breaks and the force he’d been using to hold the bottle down startles his arm unexpectedly, his elbow knocking into one of the wine glasses besides him, sending it shattering to the floor.

Glass on the floor, half a cork in the neck of the bottle, and an unthinkably red face, Harry freezes.

“Oh my god!” he moans, eyes flickering between the damaged bottle and the broken glass. “I’m—ah, I’m so sorry! Let me get a broom, and—and another bottle of wine, crap, I’m so sorry!”

Leather Jacket Boy is grinning at him— literally _grinning—_ and saying, “No worries, mate!” and the sound of his giggles sends a shiver up Harry’s spine, but either way he’s rushing back towards the kitchen in search of a broom and his dignity.

——

Louis’ laughter fades just as quickly as it came when his phone lights up. One message from Nick G. **hey can we do this some other time??? shit came up idek man.**

_Shit Came Up. I Don’t Even Know, Man._

Someone should put that on a card. A rejection card. For when you reject people and ditch them and stand them up on fucking Valentine’s Day forty five minutes after you said you’d meet them at the most crowded, popular place in the city.

And yes, Louis kind of sort of feels like he wants to throw up a little bit (or maybe throw _something?)_ and he also kind of sort of wants to do something totally juvenile and childish like go to work early tomorrow morning and completely wreck Nick’s desk area, but he knows that he won’t. At least not yet.

It’s already been clarified that Louis is a lot of things: he’s an idiot, he’s prideful, he’s a masochist, and he never does anything half way. So it’s the conglomeration of these stunning attributes that leads Louis to his final, half hellbent, half self-pitying decision. Because Louis is one final thing, above all else.

Louis Tomlinson is a stubborn motherfucker.

“Once again, I am _so_ sorry about that.” It’s Harry, the curly haired waiter, and he’s back with a new (already opened) bottle of wine and two new glasses. He sets one down and goes to set the other next to the empty place setting, but Louis lets out a dry laugh and waves him off.

“Just the one is fine, I think,” he says. Is it weird that he doesn’t even really feel all that embarrassed saying it all the sudden? Maybe he’s snapped or something, just totally gone off the deep end. He hums softly while Harry pours the wine (and Louis’ got to give him credit, his face had barely flickered once he realized what was happening) and decides that Yes. He’s staying. Fuck Nick and Fuck Valentine’s Day.

——

“Ni!” Harry shout-whispers breathlessly (Why’s he whispering? Who’s going to hear?) “Ni, Ni, Ni, Ni, _NI!”_

“What?” Niall finally snaps, spinning around, a stack of dirty dishes in his hands. Harry follows behind as he goes to leave them in the dish room.

“I think Table 28 just got stood up or some wild shit,” he says it so confidentially, as if it’s a dirty rumor about someone they personally know.

Niall’s face breaks into a disbelieving grin, a combination of horror and glee. Niall loves a good trainwreck is the thing. And, really, who doesn’t?

Not that _Leather Jacket Boy_ is a trainwreck or anything— and there Harry goes being weirdly defensive about a total stranger— it’s just that, well, it _is_ kind of funny in a fucked up, sad sort of way.

“What happened?” Niall asks as they head back to the server station, eyes sweeping across the restaurant until they lock on Table 28. Leather Jacket Boy is sipping calmly on his wine. “He doesn’t look too fucked up about it though?” Niall notes, frowning.

“What?” Harry playfully shoves his side. “You were hoping for tears? The whole nine yards?”

“I mean, a little bit. Tonight’s been boring as shit man! No breakups, no proposals…My section’s all middle-aged losers trying not to act like the only date they go on each year just so happens to fall on February 14th.”

“Yeah, well, it’s sad either way though, isn’t it? I mean look at the guy…” Harry’s eyes sweep over his messy fringe, the light stubble spreading across his jaw. “Who’d stand up _that?”_

“Who knows? Maybe he deserved it.”

Liam’s voice comes biting through before Harry even has a chance to snap back that there is _no_ way that Leather Jacket Boy could _ever_ deserve something like this. “Horan! Styles!”

And so they’re off again, greeting new tables, asking if anyone needs a new drink, clearing plates, running in circles.

——

But see, Harry’s a little stuck now, is the thing. Is Leather Jacket Boy going to actually eat here? Is he gonna drink some wine and go? Is it rude to go over and just… _ask?_

He’s not even sure what his deal is really. He’s seen people get stood up before. And he’s had awkward tables, mean tables, tables that take forever to order, tables that snap what they want before he even says hi. So logically, it shouldn’t be that difficult for him to just make a nonchalant pass by Table 28 and ask if there’s anything else he can do for him.

But he doesn’t.

He hangs out at the bar and moans to Zayn instead and makes a concerted effort to hide the fact that he can’t keep his eyes off Leather Jacket Boy’s, cheek bones for more than ten seconds at a time.

“Should I get him like a free dessert or something?” Harry muses, helping to garnish a row of martinis Zayn’s lining up at the server rail. “Or is that awkward?” He glances over at Table 28; Leather Jacket Boy is still sipping his wine, cool as ever, and so Harry’s not sure if he’s just projecting or whatever. Maybe he wasn’t stood up? Maybe the date had a perfectly valid excuse as to why they couldn’t make it and Leather Jacket Boy’s an understanding partner who’s perfectly content in his relationship and understands that sometimes things happen and somehow has the confidence to just drink some wine alone in a restaurant on Valentine’s Day as if it’s no big deal.

So it appears that Harry’s somehow gone from defending Leather Jacket Boy’s honor to admiring his confidence and creating an entire backstory for him. Very normal. Totally casual.

“Hazza,” Zayn says firmly, “Do _not_ get him a dessert you fucking moron. Just go over and ask if you can get him something else, he’ll probably ‘say no thanks, just the check!’ And bam! Done!” Harry’s face must fall at his words because Zayn’s tacks on, “and if you’re still feeling all swoony and what not, write your number on the check or something.” He gives him a disparaging look and strains the last of the shaker into the final martini glass. “Honestly…”

Okay. Alright. He can do this.

He makes sure his sleeves are rolled properly, adjusts the ties on his apron once, tucks a single, solitary curl behind his ear, and goes for it. Makes a beeline for Table 28 and the most handsome man he’s ever met.

Leather Jacket Boy looks up as Harry approaches; he’s leaned back far in his chair, arms crossed casually across his chest, top hand with a light grip on the wine glass still. He’s about two glasses deep in the bottle.

“Hi,” Harry says quickly, plastering on what he hopes is a normal smile. “Can I…get you anything else? Is the wine alright?”

He’s already waiting on the balls of his feet to spring back around again, off to the kitchen to fetch a check presenter, when Leather Jacket Boy says, “Um, yeah, actually. Wine’s great, thanks. I think I’ll go ahead and order the Ahi Tuna appetizer to start with.” And if the faintest blush of pink spreads across his cheeks, Harry chalks it up to the wine and nothing more.

“Oh—,” he kicks himself, wishing he didn’t sound so surprised. “Okay, perfect,” he quickly amends with a smile and nod. “I’ll just put that in for you right now. Thanks.” And _then_ he’s spinning around again, power-walking away as fast as he can in hopes that Leather Jacket Boy doesn’t think he’s _too_ much of a prick for essentially acknowledging with that single surprised _Oh_ that he was quite aware that the other guest was no long coming and that he had assumed that he would leave like any other normal person.

“He got stood up,” Harry announces to the kitchen at large. “He got stood up and you know what this guy does?” He turns squarely to face Liam and Niall, a dreamy look plastered to his face. “He just says _‘fuck it,’_ I’m gonna drink some wine and have the Ahi Tuna app.”

“The tuna?” Niall makes a face, reaching for a steak knife with one hand and and a towel with the other. “Yeah, he’s definitely not planning on getting any tonight.”

——

Louis is well aware that Ahi Tuna isn’t generally known as a comfort food, but he figures that it doesn’t really matter too much because, if he’s being honest with himself, he’s not especially upset that _Nick_ didn’t come, it’s more just the principal of the thing. Sure, Nick was hot, and tall, and modelesque, and those pants he wore Monday definitely gave off the impression that he was packing some sort of heat…but in the end, Louis isn’t a dweller. He sure as hell isn’t going to waste his time pining after some loser accountant anyways.

No, what he _really_ has to do is just nurse his wounded pride. So he spits off a quick text, **ha yeah no. we’re definitely not doing this some other time lol. idek man. shit came up i guess. forever.** And anyways, a cute, curly haired waiter is just as good as ice cream and Kardashians. So when it comes to comfort food, Ahi Tuna will just have to suffice.

——

Seven minutes have passed since Louis put in his order for the Ahi Tuna and he’s now left reflecting back on better times— _simpler times—_ when he’d thought himself brave enough, _confident_ enough, to eat alone in the center of a restaurant on Valentine’s Day. He’d been so young then. So naive. Seven minutes ago that is.

Because the hostess has just come by and sat the tables on either side of him with two lovely, loving, in love couples. So there they are, three in a line. Couple A at their two-seat table, Louis and his bottle of wine, and Couple B at their two-seat table. And it’s not that Louis’ _trying_ to eavesdrop or anything, it’s just that there isn’t actually much for him to do at the moment, seeing as it turns out Vavasour Sauvignon Blanc isn’t much of a conversation partner. To be quite frank he wonders if it would be awkward to take out his headphones and just casually bop along to his Recently Added playlist, anything to avoid hearing _‘Wow, babe, this place looks great!’_ and _‘You look beautiful tonight, sweetheart’_ — and _oh_ , dear mother of God, he spoke too soon because pet names are fine, they are _nothing,_ and he would gladly take them over the spit-show currently taking place to his left. Couple B has apparently decided to go with dessert first this evening and are currently joined at the tongue.

Louis Tomlinson, stubborn motherfucker be damned, wants to die just a little bit and scans his eyes across the room, begging to make eye contact with his curly-haired, glass-breaking waiter, to ask for the check, and get the _hell_ out of there.

He heaves a deep sigh and an even deeper pull of wine and is truly considering what the consequences of a dine-and-dash would be when he seems him.

Harry’s popping out of the kitchen, plate in hand, laughing over his shoulder with the biggest grin on his face. For a moment Louis completely forgets that he’s all but become the fifth wheel on a very unfortunate double date because, well, he has _eyes,_ right? And he’s obviously seen curly waiter Harry flitting around before this evening, seen him up close and personal even, but, for whatever reason, this is the first time he’s consciously recognized the fact that Harry is tall. Very tall. His legs seem to go on for ages and his shoulders are wide, his arms are firm and it’s just a really, very interesting sight. That’s the best way to put it. Because he’s tall and he’s got all these big, bold proportions, yeah, but he somehow still manages to look slight. Not scrawny. Just slight.

Louis can objectively appreciate a man’s body is all.

“Ahi Tuna appetizer,” Harry announces, carefully placing the dish down. Louis’ eyes bounce up to meet Harry’s.

Green.

Louis’ always been a sucker for green eyes.

“Thank you,” he mumbles, eyes darting back down to his plate. Stood up, surrounded by couples, and with a tall, slight, green-eyed waiter on Valentine’s Day. He’s got quite the luck.

“Can I get you anything else at the moment?”

The phrase is automatic and even as he quickly looks up again Louis can tell it was more of a rhetorical, polite question than anything. He doesn’t need anything else. He has wine. He has food. He’s good for now and should smile and shake his head as social norms dictate.

Instead he finds himself staring, literally _staring_ for Christ’s sake, at the green eyes hovering above his table and asking, “What’s your soup of the day?”

Harry doesn’t miss a beat. “Chipotle Lobster Bisque.”

Louis hates lobster. He hates chipotle. And he doesn’t particularly care for creamy soups, so bisques are out.

“I’ll have a cup, thanks.”

Harry smiles wide, eyes crinkling just a tiny bit at the corners as he nods. “Okay, wonderful, would you like that right away or would you like a few minutes to work on the Tuna?” Tall, slight, green eyes.  All things that Louis has unconsciously noted in the past half hour during which he’s been drowning at this table, but has never really _noticed_ until now. Add a long, drawn-out, deep voice to the list.

One half of his brain is reaming him out with a confused, inner stream of _‘You hate every item in that soup! Why? WHY? YOU AREN’T EVEN THAT HUNGRY!’_ The other half is forcing his mouth to form the words, “I’ll take it in a few minutes. Thank you so much.”

Harry smiles and nods. Louis attempts to smile and nod back.

It comes out as a grimace and a twitch.

He is dying.

Aces.

——

Harry is well aware that he’s being an idiot, but he can’t shake the hyperaware, tingly feeling he gets every time he has to come without ten feet of Leather Jacket Boy’s table. Which is quite often now, unfortunately, seeing as he got double sat with tables 27 and 29 on either side of him and is now rushing around greeting them, getting their drink orders, filling waters and explaining menu items. Worse yet, he’s acutely aware that every time he approaches either table his ass is just about at Leather Jacket Boy’s eye level and today of all days he’s wearing his second-tier work pants, also known as the black, baggy, slightly stained slacks from hell.

He ducks back into the server station and drops an empty water pitcher into the sink on the way to fetch Leather Jacket Boy’s soup. “Liam!” he calls out as his manager passes. “On a scale of one to ten how horrific does my ass look today?” They’ve worked together for years is the thing— Harry knows where to go when in need of some brutal honesty.

Harry does a little twirl as he reaches for a soup spoon for the bisque. Liam pauses, eyebrow arched judgmentally, gives him a good look, and says, “I’d give it a solid 7.5, mate. Not bad, but you’ve definitely had better days.” Harry’s inside relax a bit. He can work with a 7.5.

Except when Liam presses on with a suspicious _‘why?’_ as he goes about reading off the next ticket order, Harry’s not even really sure he can explain. Why _should_ he care if his ass looks good today? Just because it’s in _Leather Jacket Boy’s_ proximity? The probably taken, very content as he is _Leather Jacket Boy?_

He merely shrugs and grabs the soup waiting for him in the window. And if he darts away just a little too quickly, it’s only because he’s got new tables to attend to is all.

Leather Jacket Boy’s staring down at his phone, his nearly finished Ahi Tuna pushed off to the side in front of him. He visibly startles when Harry walks up to the table and announces, “Alright, so here’s the Chipotle Lobster Bisque, then,” (maybe a tad too brightly?)

Leather Jacket Boy’s phone hangs limply in his hand. The saucer under the soup had been sitting under a heating lamp and Harry’s fingers are more or less on fire. There’s a long, awkward pause.

After a second (or five) Harry coughs, arranging his face into a polite smile to hide the creeping blush flushing his cheeks pink when he realizes he’s gone and fucking done it again: he’s staring. _Staring._ Frog-eyed, open-mouth staring. He’s known for it, his friends make fun of him for it, and he can’t fucking help it. _Shit._

“Can I…” his mind blanks, gray and fuzzy like a fucked up black and white TV. Suddenly the saucer’s literally _scorching_ his fingers and what the _hell? WHY_ is he still _holding_ this? He hurriedly places the bowl down. “Can I get you anything else?” he finally finishes, forcing himself to drag his mortified eyes up from the table to meet Leather Jacket Boys’.

Except his stupid, beautiful, probably taken guest has his head tilted down just a bit as he reaches forward to grab his wine glass, forcing him to look up through stupid, beautiful, ridiculously long eyelashes. He looks like he’s about to shake his head, but right before the glass meets his lips, he suddenly replies, “the Ceviche, please.”

——

 

Couple B to the left of him has yet to come up from air.

Couple A has yet to stop holding hands across the table.

The moment curly haired waiter Harry leaves, Louis buries his face in his hands.

What. the. Fuck.

He hadn’t meant to do it. He’s _full_ right now! He’s two-thirds of the way through a bottle of wine, has just finished an entire appetizer, doesn’t even _want_ to eat the soup in front of him, and he just fucking ordered a ceviche.

It’s just that the fucking dick had come strolling over, gross, inedible bisque in hand, and Louis had clammed up. He literally just froze. Looked like such a scrub that the poor guy had frozen as well, completely taken aback by how incredibly awkward Louis must have looked, just sitting there _gawking_ at him.

_“Can I…get you anything else?”_

Would now or later be the appropriate time to Google _“How to keep from getting uncomfortably aroused by a complete stranger’s deep voice in public?”_

He’d given him the once over. Curly haired waiter Harry had dragged those big, green eyes right up Louis’ chest, up to his face— and okay _fine. Yes,_ he is aware that, logically, that probably wasn’t what happened at all, that Harry was literally just looking at him, but in his desperate, overfed, wine-buzzed, stood-up mind, Louis had all but melted when it happened. Cut him some slack. He needs _something_ to get him through this evening. And if pretending (read: deluding himself) that his cute waiter was checking him out is what he needs to do so, so be it.

Especially seeing as he apparently has yet another course to get through.

Fuck.

——

Table 29 apparently has either never kissed before this evening or is unable to do so in the comfort of their own goddamn home.

“This is the Pacifico,” Harry places one beer glass down, “and this is the Shocktop.”

No response.

“Can I get you anything else at the moment?”

No response.

A disturbing slurping noise.

“…Okay, I’ll give you a few minutes then.”

He sidesteps and makes to back away from the table, but his heel ends up coming down hard on something not-so solid behind him. He spins around out of reflex, gasping slightly when he realizes that, _of course,_ he’s stepped directly on Leather Jacket Boy’s foot.

“Oh—shi—,” he cuts himself off, “I’m so sorry about that!”

Leather Jacket Boy hardly seems phased. “No worries,” he quips, eyes flashing up to meet Harry’s. “I’d be distracted too if I were in your place.” He makes a tiny nod towards Table 29. They either don’t hear, don’t get it, or don’t care. Harry’s lips twitch and he quickly stifles a laugh with a cough, trying his best to maintain any sense of professionalism that tells him making fun of his guests while standing literally inches from their table is _probably_ not the way to the best tip.

“Right,” he replies, stepping away from the tables successfully this time. Leather Jacket Boy doesn’t drop his gaze, still looks a little amused. Harry frowns at the untouched bowl of bisque. “Was everything alright with the soup?”

“Oh,” Leather Jacket Boy’s eyes drop to the bowl, surprised. “Oh, um…no, it’s fine! I was just…waiting for it to like…cool off a bit because…burns…” He gives a nonchalant wave and makes to pick up the spoon. “All good!”

Something seems a little off about the situation, but Harry’s not sure what. “Ahh,” he replies, nodding. “Right. Totally understandable. Don’t want to burn your tongue off…or whatever,” he finishes lamely. There’s another awkward pause.

Leather Jacket Boy has very sharp cheekbones, he notices. A voice in the back of his brain is frantically trying to remind Harry that Table 27’s Spring Roll appetizer is probably up in the kitchen, but he finds himself in a weird sort of limbo, hand half outstretched towards the empty tuna dish, mouth hanging open unattractively.

A beat passes and Leather Jacket Boy goes to take a sip of wine, still watching him curiously. Harry forces himself back to reality. “I’ll just clear this for you then.”

——

Louis isn’t sure at what point being a stubborn motherfucker who never does anything halfway became a death wish, but that’s apparently how things are going to roll this evening. Curly haired waiter Harry’s just dropped off the Ceviche and he’s not even _done_ with the bisque and he’d somehow how mumbled out, “Chickean Caesar Salad,” and now he’s not sure how long it’ll be until curly haired waiter Harry will be back and, for reasons beyond his comprehension, he feels _strongly_ compelled to not be a total dick and refuse to eat his bisque, let alone the barely-touched Ceviche.

Would plugging his noise and chugging it be socially unacceptable?

Will it taste better if he chases it with Sauvignon Blanc?

Why does he even care what his fucking waiter thinks?

These are the questions Louis ponders forlornly as he bucks up, spoon in hand, and digs in. Spoon to bowl. Spoon to mouth. Spoon to bowl. Spoon to mouth. Rinse and Repeat.

Somewhere along the way Louis becomes vividly aware that he has been looking straight ahead, unblinkingly, _unwaveringly_ shoveling lobster bisque into his mouth. All while staring resolutely at the bartender fifteen or twenty feet before him. And _somewhere along the way_ , said bartender has taken to staring right back at him, dark eyebrows hitched in confusion.

Dark-browed, tatted-up bartender cocks his head to the side mid draft pour. _“You okay?”_ he mouths.

Peachy.

Louis is absolutely peachy.

——

“Harry, I think your friend at Table 28 needs an adult or something.”

Harry slouches against the server rail and tries not to look like he’s shooting laser beams right over to Leather Jacket Boy. “How so?” he asks, trying and failing to sound disinterested.

“Well,” Zayn begins measuredly, reaching for a rocks glass behind him. “He was literally dead-eyeing me as he ate his soup. Eye-to-eye stare down. I wasn’t sure if he wanted to fight or fuck or— “

_“Zayn,”_ Harry hisses, head snapping back to face his friend. “What the fuck?”

“Don’t what the fuck _me_ , dude!” he shrugs, dishing ice into the glass. “I’m not the one staring down the bartender from across the room!”

And he knows that Zayn was probably joking about the whole looking at him like he wanted to fuck thing, but it just…it just doesn’t sit right with Harry, okay?

“He was probably wondering why we’ve got such a goon working the bar is all,” he mumbles, shoving off the rail and heading back towards the kitchen. “How’s that Chicken Caesar coming?” he calls out, glancing at his watch.

A very frazzled Liam gives him a death glare when he whips around. “We’re running ten behind. Let your tables know that we’re a little backed up and apologize for the wait.”

Harry turns right back around, probably over-excited to have yet another excuse to head back to Table 28.

——

**If ur not busy rn maybe you could come over to mine? Let me make it up to you ;) ??**

“Are you _FUCKING_ kidding me?”

“Um…” Louis’ head shoots up. Harry. Waiter Harry. Cute Waiter Harry. Cute Waiter harry is wide-eyed and shocked.

“I know! I’m sorry! I’m sorry, it’s just the Valentine’s rush! It shouldn’t be too much longer, but I just wanted to let you know what the wait was for… Would you like me to bring my manager over?”

“What?” Louis blinks, heart still pounding from the text. “No— I— I’m sorry, I didn’t even…” He sighs involuntarily and runs his fingers through his hair. “I didn’t even hear what you said— I— text,” he gestures helplessly at his phone. Harry’s eyes widen in understanding.

Before he even realizes what he’s doing, he’s rubbing a finger into the corner of his eye and muttering, “Have you ever been stood up on Valentine’s Day and then been booty-called by said stand-er up-er less than two hours later. Because…”

A range of emotions, each more comically vibrant than the last—confusion, disbelief, shock, revulsion— spin across Harry’s face. Louis feels his stomach twist into one final knot and then promptly fall to his feet.

_What is: being incredibly awkward and talking about personal issues to strangers?_

_I’ll take over-sharing for $500, Alex._

“Holy…shit…” Harry finally breathes, features coming to rest on a look of mild pity tinged with disgust.

Embarrassed, Louis looks back down at his phone to check the time, curious as to just how long he’s been in this personal hell for.

“What a fucking—“ Harry cuts himself short with a small _oh._ An over-saturated image of Freddie Mercury in cape and crown fills Louis’ lock screen. “You like Queen?”

Louis glances up, eyes only, head still cast dow like a pouting child. “Yeah?” Like them? _Like them?_ Louis was all but set to name his first born _son_ after them.

Harry’s got his doe-eyed, slack-mouthed look now, the definition of passion, and Louis almost wants to giggle at the sheer earnestness he’s suddenly exuding, all mentions of failed-dates and booty-calls somehow driven from his mind when—

“I would die for Freddie Mercury.” Pause. “You know…If he weren’t already…dead…and all.”

And Louis just loses it. Laughing and laughing and _who the hell_ IS _this?_ and _this is incredible. (He’s incredible.)_ And then Harry’s being called away by someone peeking out the kitchen doors and Louis’ left alone with his half-eaten, truly horrible lobster bisque.

He doesn’t even think to deign Nick with a response.

——

“Table 30’s entrees have been up for four minutes, Harry! Run your food, man! I need to get this shit,” Liam gestures to the loaded prep window, “out of here!”

Harry happily takes the three piping hot plates Liam hands him, nestling the corner of one on top of the other in his left hand, barely even feeling the burn of the ceramic against the finger tips of his right.

“He likes Queen,” he announces dreamily to no one in particular.

“Table 28?” Liam asks, not taking his eyes off the ticket before him.

“Leather Jacket Boy,” Harry confirms.

“Keep it in your pants, H,” Liam laughs. “We’ve still got an hour ’til close.”

——

“Zayn?” Harry says softly, not sure why he’s whispering. “Zay-ay-ay-n.”

Zayn gives him a withering stare. “Well? What’s the update then?”

Harry stays quiet a moment, picking at one of the mint leaves in the garnish tray.

“He loves Freddie and Queen, Zayn,” he finally says, tone quiet solemn.

Zayn pauses mid mash of a mojito. “He does?”

“Enough to have Freddie as his lock screen,” Harry smiles shyly, still sort of quiet.

He’s got butterflies in his stomach and kind of feels like he’s walking on air, ‘cause this is _different_ now. This is more than just a cute guy at one of his tables. This is a cute guy who is decidedly single and _not_ dating the asshole that ditched and booty-called him. This is a cute, single guy with whom he has _shared interests!_ I.E., more than just physical attraction!

Zayn starts ‘oohing’ and ‘aahing’ and, well, he fuck right off. This is serious. And Harry’s got more important things to tend to.

——

Louis whips out his phone the second Harry walks away from his table, quickly opening shooting off a text.

**so. lottie. on a scale of 1-10, how sad is it to get stood up and then rebound hard with the cute waiter while still at the restaurant one got stood up at?**

A reply comes within the minute.

**10**

Louis frowns.

**he said he would die for freddie mercury**

Three dots appear immediately.

**1**

And then,

**Godspeed.**

——

While talking to Zayn at the bar, Harry had made the conscious decision to flirt with— to court, if you will, table 28’s Leather Jacket Boy.

Fifteen minutes have now passed and he has done nothing of the sort, choosing, rather, to triple check on each of his other tables and then, when all else failed, to stand in front of the line with Liam, begging the cooks to turn out the Chicken Caesar he was still waiting on.

“I can’t go out there empty handed, Liam!” he mumbles, pretending to fold napkins. “Last time I went out there I told him I’d die for Freddie Mercury. I need a few minutes to regroup. Maybe a few years.”

Liam considers him for few seconds and then stalks over to the cold-prep window, grabbing a waiting Chicken Caesar plate that was actually for a table before Harry’s.

“Here,” he says shortly. “Take it. Go. Get it over with!” Harry stares up at him in shock. Serving tables out of order has always been Liam’s #1 Pet Peeve as a manager. Before he can change his mind, Harry’s already hurrying away.

“And don’t think I’m helping you!” Liam calls after him, unable to hide the laughter in his voice. “I just really want that table to be done!”

——

Harry sets down the salad with a weighty sort of finality. This is it, Louis thinks. I’ve got to eat this and go. Anything else would just be obscene at this point. He knows that if he really wanted to get to know Harry better all he has to do is write his number on his receipt or something. Maybe even be an adult and ask him face to face. This, however, seems like a task of monumental significance, far beyond the scope of Louis’ ability at this moment.

But he wants to. He really, really fucking wants to.

——

“So…” Harry asks slowly, once he’s set down the salad, knowing that this is it. This is the end. It couldn’t go on forever, could it? Leather Jacket Boy can’t just stay here and order keep on ordering food... “Can I get you anything else?”

There’s a long, drawn-out moment then. It’s like something out of a romantic-comedy if Harry’s being honest. (Or hopeful.)

Leather Jacket Boy’s eyes meet his. He holds his gaze for two— five— _eight_ seconds. (Yes, Harry knows. Yes, he was counting.) The restaurant around them seems to disappear, blur so far into the background that all that’s left is Harry in his stained, black apron, hair frizzy from the heat of the kitchen, and Leather Jacket Boy, nameless as ever, jacket still leather, still stupidly beautiful. It’s just him and Harry.

“The hanger steak, please.” The words hang heavy in the air.

Shocked, Harry bites back a smile. “How would you like that prepared?”

Silence.

And then, “Well done.”

And he knows. And Harry knows. And Harry knows that Leather Jacket Boy knows and he knows that Leather Jacket Boy knows that Harry knows what this means.

A well done steak takes a fucking long time to cook. A solid twenty-five minutes between putting it in the computer, prep, cooking, plating, and serving.

So Harry just nods, smirking, and shuffles off to the computers, unable to believe his luck. He stands there for a minute, fingers outstretched, but he doesn’t put anything in.

Leather Jacket Boy isn’t hungry. Obviously not. But he’s determined and willing and holy shit _how_ is this a real life situation that Harry’s managed to get himself into? That a cute guy is willing to eat himself to death just to spend another half hour with him?

Love truly works in mysterious ways.

——

“Something light!” Harry hisses, pretending to busy himself by tidying up the napkin/straw container on the bartop. “And— _shit—_ okay, maybe you should make it a virgin…he’s had a whole fucking bottle of wine…um, just…No! Fuck that, I’m just being weird…Or? I don’t know?” Harry rambles, shoving straw after straw into the container. “Maybe a smoothie would be better?God, I don’t fucking care, just make him something pretty! Something colorful that I can put one of the flowers on!”

Zayn glares at him over his shoulder. “Who’s the professional here, Hazza?” Harry frowns for a second before pretending to work again, too nervous to glance in Table 28’s direction. “Mmm. That’s what I thought.”

A minute later there’s a martini glass before him, filled with alternating layers of shimmering blue and green liquid. Zayn unceremoniously plops a yellow flower into the center as a garnish.

Fuck it.

_Here we go…_

——

Louis watches the whole exchange out of the corner of his eye, terrified of being caught staring. Steak. Steak. _Steak??_ Why STEAK? His wallet burns a hole through his pocket and right onto his ass cheek. Perfect. There’s his action for the night.

But he’s done it is the thing. He’s made his intentions three _thousand_ percent clear. (As if ordering a solid ten course dinner hadn’t already given him away as fairly weird and overly interested.) And Harry hadn’t even seemed _surprised_ at the order. Just smirked and walked away, cute and lanky and completely fucking alluring as ever.

So, yeah, he’s nervous. Of course. But Louis isn’t stupid. He’s pretty sure he’s got an in now. And if it cost him more than a hundred to get there…well. That’s just, quite literally, the price to pay then.

He sees the bartender make a crazy cool drink, but he’s more focused on the lines of Harry’s back, the strands of loose curls falling out of his bun. And when Harry picks up the martini glass and turns around, Louis doesn’t even try to look away. Just gives him a tiny, knowing smile for a second and then pretends to check his phone, fighting the urge to track Harry’s every movement as he delivers the drink.

Nervous laughter.

Louis looks up and then immediately jerks upright, startled. Harry’s right in front of his table, drink in hand, and he’s setting it down. In front of Louis. He glances at the drink and then Harry, a giddy, surprised grin spreading across his face. “What’s—“

“I was, um…,” Harry tucks a few loose hairs behind his ears, casual tone not quite matching the rosy tint of his cheeks, “I was thinking that maybe I could…put that steak in to go?” He fusses with the fold of his push-up sleeves. “Like we could…I don’t know, maybe you’d want to come over to my place to eat it—“ He cuts himself off, eyes flying wide. “I mean, not like—I— _fuck,”_ he starts laughing, “this honestly sounded so much more normal in my head! I’m not like— I’m not trying to proposition you or anything— I mean. I am? But not that way! I’m not inviting you over to my house for like… for sex? Not that I— I just meant— I honestly just meant we could eat the steak there? Because,” he’s giggling hard now and Louis isn’t sure if it’s a defense mechanism or if he truly finds the whole thing hilarious and dumb (maybe a combination of both?) It’s endearing either way. “You’ve just like…you’ve literally eaten so much!” Harry finally blurts out. His eyes go even wider. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that!” he hurriedly backtracks. “I’m actually quite impressed! I just meant like…if you wanted to save the steak for later?” He sighs in defeat. “Listen, I really just want to see you again, Leather Jacket Boy. That’s all I’m asking.”

Louis’ sure the grin on his face is dumb as anything, but he can’t stop because this, _all of this,_ has been so fucking weird and funny and unbelievable and how did he go from getting stood up on Valentine’s Day to being asked out by the adorable, Freddie Mercury loving waiter?

“Sure,” he finally manages in between giggles. “To go’s fine.” He pauses for a moment, suddenly registering the last bit of what Harry’d said. Leather Jacket Boy?

“It’s Louis, by the way.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Reviews and kudos are always appreciated! Come visit me at louisandthealien.tumblr.com
> 
> If you've ever enjoyed anything that I've ever written and are in a position to be generous, considering donating a literal dollar or two to the [venmo](http://venmo.com/MaryClare-Zimmermann) of this poor grad student, high school teacher, and aspiring Pacific Coast Trail hiker (5 month hikes are expensive. Who knew!) It would mean the absolute world. Thank you!


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